I’ve never liked going a prescribed path, and even as a nerdy teenager, I loved asking anyone in authority to go deeper, to answer tough questions, to shake the foundation of their presumptions and core beliefs. It was never to insult people, nor prove how smart I was, nor was it to just be a jerk. Being disrespectful to another person’s path has always been one of my biggest fears. I’m mostly curious how people have come to believe what they believe. I like to see if it resonates with my own experience and– if not– figure out where the disconnect is.

When I was living at the ashram, I struggled a lot with the idea of Guru. Like many, I thought Guru was a person– and a specific person at that. I tried really hard to believe. I tried to put my mind away, and just be obedient, hoping there was some truth to “fake it til you make it.” But the blind, inauthentic faith wore me down, and soon I was a little shell of myself. It wasn’t pretty.

One night, about halfway through my tenure, I sat at the feet of (yet another) spiritual teacher. Some claimed her as their Guru. They brought her flowers, fruit, and all sorts of gifts. They touched her feet, kissed her, and asked her to bless them. During a pause in the ceremony, our eyes met. I quickly looked away and glued my eyes to my off-white ashram-issued pants. I smiled respectfully as she suddenly turned to address me, whispering somewhat playfully:

“I know what you’re thinking. But my dear, you must understand, Guru is not a person.

Guru is the teaching. Though we have this idea that Guru is a person, the actual meaning of “Guru” is “that which dispels darkness”. Guru is the light in the dark. The person is just the vessel.”

Then she patted my cheek and continued singing.

This concept of Guru was groundbreaking and has stuck with me ever since. The image that comes to mind for me is the idea of a cup that holds water. There are so many different cups, different shapes and colors, styles, and attitudes. The cup may have funny words printed on it or be in the shape of a dinosaur. The cup may be super punk rock or really sweet and demure. Different cups will attract different people. But at the end of the day, the shape/color/style of the cup doesn’t matter much. What matters is what it holds: the water. The cup will not quench our thirst. The water will. And although the water will take the form of the cup, it never actually becomes the cup, nor does the cup become the water. The water is all that matters.

Similarly, the teaching may take the form and shape of a particular person, a teacher, but each maintains its integrity.This is important, and it’s something all of us– teachers and students alike– tend to forget. We get so wrapped up in how lovely and cooling the water is, how great its benefits, how it brings us life, that we– in perhaps our zealous gratitude– begin to associate the cup with the water. We start to believe that the cup is the important part, the cup is what sustains us. We begin to worship cup. We create religions and traditions and lineages and factions around the cup, rather than the water itself. The cup starts charging lots of money to taste the water. And we gratefully shell it out, believing that if there is no cup, there is no water. We forget that water literally falls freely from the sky. (As does wisdom, if we know how to listen for it.)

Though the human teacher may be pure at heart, this delusion of power can corrupt anyone. This delusion is the very veil (mara, maya, sin, whatever you want to call it) that keeps all of us in darkness. It happens over and over again, in every spiritual path that I’ve witnessed. This pattern is certainly disconcerting, but it also speaks to the consistent struggle of the human condition. Teachers must continue to ask themselves “How do we remain a conduit and not attach ourselves to the wisdom that occasionally graces us? How do we not lose our balance?” Their path is no different from our own.

For someone who doesn’t like spiritual teachers very much, I always seem to end up being in service to them.

I get to see them up close and personal. I get to see their humanity and all their imperfections. And it’s what I love about them; though it’s probably the thing they despise the most. They’ve got cracks and flaws. They’re made out of simple materials, just like the rest of us.

I remember reading a critique written by J. Krishnamurti, who saw Swami Sivananda eating a jar of pickled plums– an item forbidden from ashrams because they are intoxicating to the senses and much too sweet for those on the path of sacredness. Krishnamurti saw Sivananda eating these plums, and he thought “What a hypocrite!” He threw out the water because the cup had a chip. (And then, after many years, he himself became a cup, much to his dismay. Oh, the irony!)

I find Krishnamurti an interesting character and I align with him on many things, but I disagree with his conclusion about his experience with Swami Sivananda. I find his story of Sivananda lovely and hopeful. In a way, seeing a teacher’s crude humanity is even more powerful than believing they’re a celestial and otherworldly being. For example, one of my favorite images of Christ, (another great embodiment of the light) is from Matthew 26:39 “Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” His humanity shines through, as does his staggering love and devotion. It is not disappointing. It is incredible.

These little glimpses of a teacher’s humanity are incredible precisely because they indicate a level playing field. They abolish the illusion of a spiritual hierarchy. Teachers are human– they are made of dirt and clay and other gross matter, just like the rest us. They walked this earth, just as we do. As sacred and sattvic as they might be (some more than others) they still experience the mundane elements that we all struggle with.

And yet they can manage somehow to hold the light. They can become a cup for the water. They can be the vessel for Guru.

Which really means, potentially, so can we all.

The advent of Spring brings open windows, bare feet, and warm sunset breezes in my apartment. It brings fresh-cut flowers, sun-steeped tea, and sunrise inversions before work. It also brings bees who crawl through the tiny cracks in my relatively ancient brick walls, whose buzzing energy light up my late nights.

The Bees…

I’m not really sure what draws their attention to my apartment. They come in at night, one or two at a time, sick, frenetic, and incoherent. I watch them swirl around my living room, bouncing off the blades of the fan, onto the ceiling, onto the bookshelves, and eventually burning themselves in my lightbulbs before they collapse to the floor.

When I watch these bees, I am reminded of the animalistic instinct of reactivity that all creatures struggle with. This is the struggle for survival and freedom amidst a falsely contained and automated world.

Sometimes I can catch them when they fall to my floor. If they’re still alive I’ll put a glass over them. As I carry them outside, I wonder if they know they’re dying. I wonder if they’re angry because they know they’re fighting against the inevitable. I set the glass outside on my fire escape, and try to talk them into flying away. They deserve fields of wildflowers, rather than the concrete of the city. But they don’t ever fly away. They stay, exhausted and struggling. By sunrise the next day, they’re dead.

… & You & Me

Why is it that when we’re suffering, we often want to hurt ourselves more? We take refuge in consuming poison to distract us, rather hold our pain with compassion. We seek information that lights us on fire, rather than cools our burning. We recall stories that confirm the worst possible conclusions about ourselves. We yell and push without pausing to listen or receive. We’d rather collapse while fighting for our version of reality, bouncing around and reacting to things outside ourselves. Those are the things we’re told matter most, and most of us go on living in this feverish way without question.

It’s a tall order, asking animals to go against their instinct. Just as we can’t blame the bees for their frantic reactivity, we cannot blame ourselves for ours. This comes out of a quest for survival. It is the completely natural result of the search for stability and permanence in a world that is constantly changing. It scares us and we react to that fear, fighting for our version of reality to stay put. And when it doesn’t, we burn ourselves. We break. We collapse. We fulfill this self-destructive imperative: my reality, or none at all.

This isn’t a criticism. It is a plea: may you be kind to yourself and others. It is a request: may you find freedom from your fear. It is a wish: may you take refuge in the things that really matter. Fighting against this world of containment and automation isn’t the only way. There is another way out.

Perhaps it is the peculiar cold weather we’re having in Los Angeles, complete with an eerie fog shrouding the distant San Gabriel Mountains, that has brought this somewhat uncomfortable topic of transitions to my attention. Friday was the celebration of Mahasivaratri, a Hindu holiday commemorating Lord Siva. Siva is the third deity in the Hindu triumvirate: the destroyer to Brahma’s creator and Vishnu’s preserver. In other words, Siva destroys the world so that it can be reborn. I am also reminded of the solemn Christian tradition of Lent that approaches next week and the similar resounding concepts of surrender, sacrifice, and loss in the name of rebirth. So, then again, perhaps it is no coincidence that this topic is particularly salient to me this weekend.

When I’m thinking about loss, letting go, and transitions in this context, I’m not particularly referring to the mourning process of losing someone you loved. Although I suppose that process is similar in some ways, it also carries the weight of many other profound emotions and the larger context of often unexpected structural changes. What I’m referring to are the (somewhat) voluntary transitions that happen as a natural evolution of moving through life. These are the transitions that occur simply by being an ever-changing, ever-growing entity in this world. They are the products of the process of becoming. These transitions occur when we realize we have the option to walk away from the cycle of habits and relationships that stagnate growth and cause us pain.

I’ve found that the worst part of letting go of patterns that I’ve clung to isn’t always the loss itself, but rather the idea and the meaning the loss carries. The transition itself takes only a split second. It usually happens suddenly and automatically, and then everything is different. Like navigating a room in pitch darkness, scrambling around to find the light switch. There is anxiety there, and fear, and uncertainty. You may crash into things and get hurt. But once your fingers find the switch, the actual sensation of turning on the light elicits initial shock, and then perhaps even relief.

“Ah, here I am. I see everything now.”

Anyone who has ever gone through some sort of voluntary life-transition can tell you that there is death in that process. I’ve been through what feels like endless transitions over the past two years or so. And with each change, I feel a part of myself curling up and decomposing inside. It is difficult, the process of preparing to let go. There are days of mourning, filled with nostalgia and a longing for things to be as they were– the familiarity of it all, the lovely yet artificial taste of security. Bits of remembrance stick to you like tiny burrs after walking through the woods, and you have to remove them with care one by one: An unhealthy partnership enticing you to engage once more. A video of “friends” who don’t share your values, gathered together without you. An old drinking buddy still unwilling to acknowledge the repercussions of his actions. Each of these carries a distinct pang, a slight tugging, a desire to fall into established habits and patterns: Let me engage, even though it hurts me. Let me be invited, even though it hurts me. Let me take care of you, even though it hurts me.

Once I am actually able to release from these, the pain is gone. The doubt is gone. The fear and anxiety are gone.

What remains is something raw and tender. Something more grounded and clear. Something that guards the heart fiercely. Something that values honesty and has no palate for dramatic falsehoods. Something that knows when to create and hold on, and when to walk away.

Most days, I move through my world with a dull pain of anxiety in the back of my mind. Like there’s some door somewhere I left ajar or a light bulb burnt out, or something just slightly knocked askew. I don’t know where to look or how to fix it. It just feels like something, somewhere is a little off. I watch this ache ebb and flow throughout my day. I see how it gets passed around to my friends and coworkers, to my family, and to strangers on the street.This small gnawing anxiety is following all of us around, like a ghost trying to tell us we’ve collectively forgotten to lock our front doors.

I’ve watched it manifest itself into fights between family members, into women who I don’t know who hug me and cry, into nurses who tell me not to worry, and strange men who dismiss my words. I see it transform into long comment threads on the internet, only to be ended abruptly without resolution. Big protests in cities across the country, and small, late night tweets from someone’s smartphone.

When you don’t believe in something you fall for anything

While walking around Downtown LA, I realized that I’ve met this ghost and I’ve felt this dull ache before. In 2011, I– along with much of the world– closely watched the youth in the Middle East topple regimes that they felt were broken. I was inspired by their drive and their fearlessness. I felt at once a kinship with their desire to make their world a better place, and their anxiety for what would come. Toppling a broken system is only half the battle. Building a new one is its own challenge.

It is not enough to know what we don’t believe in. We must believe in something as well. There is always creation that goes along with destruction. Nothing is ever demolished without something being built in its place. But without a plan, without a vision, and without a belief in an ideal future, there is no control over what manifests in that void. And voids are breeding grounds for extremism.

I am most afraid that we, as the general American public, have stopped believing in anything. I’m not talking about God. I’m talking about ourselves. I’m afraid that we’ve dedicated so much energy to being right, to winning debates and elections, that we’ve lost sight of who we are as a collective. We’ve become rigid, polarized, stuck, and stagnant. But our country is neither a tower nor a wall. It is not an unmovable, concrete, rock-solid thing. It is like a beautiful ship. It can get lost and find its way again. It can weather storms and navigate waves of change with precision. That grace and maneuverability are precisely what makes this country what it is.

I know underneath all that anger and frustration is fear.

Please do not be afraid. It is easier, sometimes, to be angry instead of hurt. It is easier, sometimes, to remain silent instead of vocal. It is easier, sometimes, to destroy instead of repair. It is easier, sometimes, to build walls keeping out those you do not understand. It is easier, sometimes, to believe what someone tells you to believe, instead of listening to your heart. It is easier, sometimes, to become rigid, because being malleable means we might lose our balance and fall.

I know, sweet friend, I know. I know this fear so well: the fear of losing something so dear to you, the thought of it hurts your very soul. I know this ache. It is part of being human, and though we do not see eye to eye, we feel this pain collectively.

What happens to one of us, happens to all of us. What happens to us as a nation, affects us as individuals. There is no escaping our interconnectedness. No walls or legislation or fake news can change the ripple effect that we all feel. We have to remember to listen to each other– finding the right words and time to speak. Our founders knew this. It’s time we remembered.

We have to remember how to believe. We have to find the right words to guide us back to each other.

I forgave someone last month who really hurt me. I sat next to him in Griffith Park and listened carefully as he spoke about things he never thought necessary to tell me. I asked questions that I thought didn’t need asking, and got answers I should’ve been aware of months ago. I felt betrayed. Angry. Resentful. Shamed. My heart burned as it finally received confirmation of what it already knew to be true, but was too scared to admit.

In situations like these, it feels like the whole world is crumbling down around us. And that’s because it is. The things we had become comfortable with– the structures, relationships and perhaps the very fabric of how we see ourselves are called into question, their flimsy foundations revealed at last.

When if at first you find yourself resisting the collapse, don’t. This is an important time, and what you do next will determine where you go. Often, new life catches us off guard. We want to be prepared for the changes, foolishly thinking that the structures and ideas and languages that we’ve built will somehow prepare us when the paradigm shifts. But that is not for us to control. It is not our task to be prepared and control. It is our task to adapt and survive.

Thanks for the gift, but you can keep it.

My teacher once told me this great anecdote about Buddha. There once was a Vedic priest who grew weary of Buddha’s ideas because he was losing members of his congregation. So in a fit of rage, he stormed into Buddha’s house and yelled insult after insult after him. When he was finished, Buddha looked at the man gently and said, “When you have a house guest bring you a gift you don’t like, what do you do?” The priest paused before answering, so confused by the question that he lost his anger. “I suppose I thank him but tell him to keep the gift for himself.” Then the Buddha smiled and said “Thank you, sir, for this gift of anger. You may keep it for yourself.”

They say hurt people hurt people. But I don’t think that hurt has to be contagious. We don’t have to throw our hurt onto others, blaming them for being the cause of the world falling down. So sitting there in Griffith Park, looking at the face of a person I thought I knew, I realized that I had it within my power to let go of these stones he gifted me. The hurt I was feeling was his hurt, not mine. The anger and betrayal, all belonged to him. Somewhere along the way, someone taught him that this is how to deal with suffering. Place it on others. Be cold. Ruthless. Unloving. So when I looked at these wounds and saw who they really belonged to, my heart burned again. This time with compassion.

“What you did was not right. You may not realize that now, or ever.” I said “But you know, I forgive you.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness. I didn’t do anything wrong.” He replied, angrily.
“Oh.” I said. “Please don’t misunderstand me. The forgiveness isn’t foryou. The forgiveness is for my heart. So that I can move on.”

There is creativity in the darkness.

When we are sitting in that darkness, in that rubble, we forget that we’ve got space to choose what happens next. In that moment, we become the Creator. We have the power to shape this new world through our actions. We are like an artist facing a blank canvas. It is scary, but it all begins with one soft, vulnerable movement. And then another. And another.

I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt anymore. It does. And there are times when my heart still smolders with disappointment and anger and jealousy. But now they are just normal, human emotions that flare up in reaction to a painful situation. And they are quickly soothed with the realizations that I do not have to carry them forever, that they are a sweet reminder of the extent to which I feel, and that feeling is such a beautiful gift.

If you are in the throes of suffering, stop and look right into the abyss. Peer into the blank space where everything has collapsed. Breathe. Options will present themselves to you. And whatever you choose to do next, perhaps let it be something consistent with your core values. Something that makes your heart resonate. Something that brings a little life and grace into the rubble.

Don’t let anger, despair, and fear stop you from creating the most vivid, wildly beautiful existence you can possibly think of. Begin here.

I am so thankful for this lesson, however painful.

These are things I tell myself in the darkness. These are things that serve kindling for the light.